


Of Nightmares and Not Conversations

by isuilde



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 08:36:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1016449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isuilde/pseuds/isuilde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once, Misaki wakes up drenched in sweat, the fading threads of dreams clinging in the salty taste of tears on the corner of his lips, with Saruhiko’s name lingering in between his breaths.</p>
<p>(in which Misaki has a nightmare, and calls Saruhiko)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Nightmares and Not Conversations

**Author's Note:**

> Another one of my panicky writings in the midst of thesis—I get really really stressed out with it, and this is how I unwind. Originally a short strings of twitter fic for chipacchi. Also written for waxrain and bundayam on twitter, zeheart and mystearika because they indulged me when i scream about my academic life, thank you guys you are the bestest.

Once, Misaki wakes up drenched in sweat, the fading threads of dreams clinging in the salty taste of tears on the corner of his lips, with Saruhiko’s name lingering in between his breaths.

He swallows hard, thrice, because his throat feels like he’s just screamed himself raw (he might have, no one would ever notice unless his next door neighbors heard him, and even then they would never dare approach the famous Yatagarasu of HOMRA, anyway). His fingers are shaking; he grips his blankets tighter to stop them and feels his whole body trembles instead.

He can’t remember what he dreamt about.

His watch phone is the only source of light in the room when he fumbles with it, letting his face awash with a soft blue glow as he slides the tip of his thumb carefully on the surface of his watch. The projections blink alive, his contact list neatly lining down the hologram, and Misaki has a second to hesitate, but his thumb has already made the decision for him.

He stares at the  _“fu”_  list for a long time.

It’s a number he should have deleted a long time ago—a number he chooses not to see, a number that symbolizes the existence of a person he loathes the most, a number that belongs to a fucking traitor, a number he can barely bring himself to see, a number he can never erase from memory, even if one day he’s able to delete it from his phone. Misaki inhales, hating the shaky sound he makes when he does so, and thinks of going back to sleep.

The tip of his thumb lingers on the number for one-two-three-four seconds, and  _touches down_. The phone blinks a call.

It rings as Misaki watches in astonishment, half of his brain still a muddle of chaos left by the nightmare he can’t even remember. It rings and rings and Misaki is letting it, what the fuck, and he knows he shouldn’t, he knows he has to cut the call now, but his fingers are shaking again, and his heart is hammering in his chest so hard Misaki is surprised that his ribs aren’t bruised.

There’s a soft click, and the drawl comes in a lazy, delicious voice, almost predictably: “Mi-sa-kiiii….”

His breath catches, but the set of his shoulders relax minutely, and Misaki listens. He listens to the the slight note of exhaustion slipping into the drawl, listens to the soft exhale of the last syllable. He listens, wonders if Saruhiko’s voice has always had that scratchy quality in it, or is it a result of too much staying up for work, because SCEPTER 4 is all about responsibility and formality and that’s moronic. His eyes flickers to the upper right corner of his phone projection screen—fifteen to three in the morning.

Saruhiko probably hasn’t gotten any sleep.

He wonders if Saruhiko is staying up for the Blues tonight, if Saruhiko is still at that grand-looking building that is the Blues headquarter. He hates that, he thinks, because the building always seems cold from the outside, unlike the bar where it’s always warm with laughter and freedom and inexplicable yet treasured bonds. He hates that, because he still thinks Saruhiko should be here, by Misaki’s side, perhaps asleep on his stomach with his glasses askew and his hands clutching a controller and—

And that is the only world where Misaki can be a part of Saruhiko, isn’t it? The world of the Blues and paperwork and complicated procedures don’t need Misaki. And that hurts, being cast away from someone’s world, someone whose existence makes up so much of Misaki’s world.

But Saruhiko has his own world now—Misaki isn’t a part of it. Misaki will never be good enough to be a part of it.

He curses himself when he swallows hard—it’s silent on the other end of the phone, too. Saruhiko could probably hear him swallow. It’s like a sign of weakness: this very moment, it’s Misaki putting himself bare and defenseless, every heartbeat clinging to the sound of Saruhiko’s breath.

“Misakiiii…”

The last syllable drops into a tired note. Misaki doesn’t answer.

“Misaki,” another one, soft, half-mocking, and yet reassuring. Misaki wants to scoff, but his eyes are inexplicably blurry, and he thinks they’re wet, but damn if he’s going to make a sound about it. Saruhiko’s going to catch up—he’ll know, he always knows, and he will know now because Misaki knows his breathing changes, as oxygen catches on his throat and leaves his chest hollow, a sharp, unpleasant sound that he swallows back.

But Saruhiko hears. He always does.

“You have a nightmare, don’t you, Mi-sa-kiiii..?” the victorious tone in Saruhiko’s voice is obvious, despite exhaustion fraying its edges. Smug bastard. Misaki won’t answer that, because  _fuck-you-very-much-monkey,_ and lays back down. He tries not to think about the fact that it’s easier to breathe now,  that Saruhiko doesn’t hang up on him, that Saruhiko is there, simply there and breathing and speaking—that’s oddly comforting.

Misaki sort of hates it because Saruhiko is a fucking traitor, but still.

His fingers aren’t shaking anymore.

“Oi, Misaki..?” a click of a tongue, a hint of annoyance. “Really, we’re doing this? You’re calling me and not saying anything? What are you, five?”

_Dumbass_ , Misaki mouths softly against his phone watch, keeping it clutched safely in his palm, and swallows back a smile.

Saruhiko doesn’t say anything else, but he doesn’t hang up either.

Misaki slips back into sleep with the phone still on, Saruhiko’s breath in his ear, making its way into the threads of sleep easily, and as his eyes finally gives into the temptation and close, Misaki tells himself,  _just this once_.

Just this once.

He dreams of endless warmth.

**——-o0ofinitoo0o——-**


End file.
